


a recipe for love

by professortennant



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Masterchef, Top Chef
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-14 13:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16041881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: When Jack O'Neill signed up for the show—MasterChef or Top Chef or whatever it’s called—he expected it to be fun; expected it to boost attention to his struggling restaurant; expected it to be a bit of a laugh and a distraction from a broken heart and a fresh divorce.What he hadn’t expected was Samantha Carter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [NiceHatGeorgia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiceHatGeorgia/pseuds/NiceHatGeorgia) in the [CookOutNBakeOff](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/CookOutNBakeOff) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> AU: Sam and Jack are contestants on a competitive cooking show (or one of them is a judge or the host or whatever sounds like fun to you)

When he’d signed up for the show— _MasterChef or Top Chef or_ whatever it’s called—he expected it to be fun; expected it to boost attention to his struggling restaurant; expected it to be a bit of a laugh and a distraction from a broken heart and a fresh divorce. 

 

What he hadn’t expected was _her._

 

Where most contestants were loud and brash, throwing around their credentials and shiny knife bags, Samantha Carter stayed quiet and let her skills speak for themselves. Jack, easily the oldest contestant in the mix, appreciated her methods and attitude in the kitchen: quick, efficient, and sharp. It was a welcome relief from the cocky attitudes and egos that currently filled the on-set kitchen.

 

For the most part, he was content to just watch her from next to her station. He decided that even if he went home that day, it was worth the trip to the show just to watch someone as skillful as Carter dice and chop next to him, braise and sauté and sous-vide with ease. 

 

One of the hot-shots, Hanson, pressed against her during the middle of a challenge and leered over her shoulder. Jack’s grip tightened on the handle of his knife and he readied himself to jump in. 

 

“You sure you don’t need my help, Sam? I could show you how to really adjust your _grip.”_

 

To her credit, Sam didn’t lose focus on the task at hand. She simply tossed a cold smile at Hanson, her chef’s knife dropping down to a point on her cutting board. 

 

“And I could show you how to bandage a knife wound.”

 

Hanson glared and stalked away, muttering, “ _Bitch_ ,” under his breath. Jack frowned when Sam flinched but redoubled her efforts and picked up the pace, working on finishing her dish. 

 

As Jack checked on his cherry reduction and threw his duck breast in the oven to finish cooking, he eyed Hanson’s pork loin in the oven next to his. He thought about the way the man spoke to Carter and the way she had flinched and, in the end, the decision to turn the temperature on Hanson’s oven way up was an easy one. 

 

Later, after Hanson cursed loudly and ranted and raved about sabotage and tossed his rubber-like pork loin onto the plate for the judges to evaluate, Sam caught his eye and raised a questioning eyebrow. 

 

He just shrugged and winked. 

 

The answering smile—strong enough to power every appliance in the damn kitchen—was the first time Jack O’Neill realized coming onto this show was the best decision he’d ever made. 

 

_________________

 

The house for the contestants—or _cheftestants_ , as the show’s crew preferred to refer to them—was a riot of noise and alcohol and cigarette smoke. Those days were long behind him and he found himself gravitating towards the cool, illuminated pool in the backyard, barefoot and beer in hand. 

 

With a groan, he lowered himself to the edge of the pool and let his feet dangle in the water. He was getting too old to be standing for hours on end in the kitchen, hunched over stovetops and sweating it out on the line. 

 

The cool water felt good on his feet, the beer helped loosen him, and he leaned back on his elbows and closed his eyes, letting the sounds of crickets chirping and the uproarious noise from his housemates wash over him. 

 

“Mind if I join you?”

 

Cracking open an eye, Jack grinned when he saw her standing above him, feet shuffling nervously and her fingers pulling at the soggy label of her beer bottle. He’d barely gotten to know her, but the incongruities between Samantha Carter in and out of the kitchen would continue to fascinate him. 

 

He smiled up at her and pushed himself up, patting the concrete beside him. 

 

“Pull up a chair.”

 

She settled beside him with significantly more grace than he had used to get down here and he swallowed hard when she shifted closer, her hip and thigh pressing against his and her feet dipping into the water. 

 

“Congratulations,” she offered softly. “On the win today,” she added in clarification.

 

Waving her off, he shrugged. “Lucky break.” 

 

It wasn’t lucky at all. He’d poured his heart and soul into the brisket he’d served up to the judges: massaging the dry rub into the marbled fat, searing and smoking and roasting on low heat for _hours._ He’d painstakingly planned every second of their allotted time and he’d _just_ finished plating up the slow-roasted brisket, coffee and chicory barbecue sauce, and collard greens when the timer went off. 

 

“It wasn’t a lucky break,” she argued, surprised at his dismissal of his win. “Don’t cut yourself short. It was delicious.”

 

He grinned at her, a crooked smile that showed a flash of dimples. “You tried some?”

 

She blushed and turned her attention back to her beer bottle, pulling parts of the damp label off and rolling them into tight paper balls before flicking them into the bushes behind them. 

 

“It was making my stomach grumble the entire damn time,” she admits.

 

Jack laughed at this and nudged her shoulder with his own, liking the way she grinned up at him from beneath lowered lashes, her bottom lip sucked between her teeth. “Carter, you just had to ask for some and I would have given you whatever you wanted.”

 

There’s a little too much truth to that, he thinks. 

 

Carter’s eyes darken and he swallows hard when he notices her gaze drop from his eyes to his lips and back up again. “Anything I want, huh?”

 

Beneath the water, their feet continue to kick around lazily. By accident or on purpose, he’s not sure, Sam’s feet brush against his, her toes stroking over the top of his foot and ankle. 

 

She leans close and breathes out his name, “ _Jack…”_

 

And he’s never heard his name said like _that_ before and he leans forward, too, suddenly intent on knowing if the Samantha Carter he knows in the kitchen—the one fastidious and detail-oriented with her damn talented fingers and sharp eyes—is the same Samantha Carter he’d get in the bedroom. 

 

Then the lights of the backyard flick on and the backdoor slides open and eight other contestants pile onto the back deck, loud and laughing. 

 

Sam and Jack pull apart quickly, both of their cheeks flushing red with an almost-kiss that didn’t happen. 

 

“Hey! Jack! Sam! Get over here!”

 

Daniel—one of the floppy-haired, overeager chefs that Jack actually kinda likes—calls out to them, waving them over. Jack sighs and nudges Sam with a small grin. 

 

“C’mon, Carter. We got dues to pay. Hands to shake. Egos to stroke.”

 

She smiles brightly at this and he feels like with a smile like that, the night wasn’t a complete loss at all.

 

Before they stand and join their fellow chefs, beneath the waterline, he reaches out and brushes her foot with his in a message he hopes she understands. 

 

____________________

 

 

For the first time on the show, they’re partnered up together on a challenge. The judges this time had assigned the pairings and the old curmudgeon Kinsey had narrowed his beady little eyes at Jack—whom he had long despised—and with a sharp grin announced he would be working with Carter. 

 

To his credit, Jack understood why Kinsey thought they wouldn’t work well together. Jack was home-taught and specialized in comfort food and taste and couldn’t give two damns about presentation. Meanwhile, Sam was classically trained and technically perfect, focusing on presentation and subtle flavors. 

 

They _shouldn’t_ have worked.

 

Except, when it came time to work together they just seemed to fit. While other teams butted heads or argued over the direction to take a dish, Sam and Jack bowed their heads together at their spot by the pool and spoke in half-formed sentences. 

 

“We could poach the salmon and then—“

 

“—use the skin and fry it off for a—“

 

“—play on fish and chips. Yeah, perfect.”

 

The blend of technique from Sam and Jack’s focus on flavor meant that they rose head and shoulders above the other teams. Sam, taking a playful leaf from Jack’s book, even adjusted her plating style and wrapped up the salmon skin chips and poached salmon in old newspaper. 

 

Cooking together had been smooth, too. They barely needed to speak with the exception of the occasional _Behind_ and _Hot._ It became a dance of sorts: a brush of bodies in close quarters, steadying fingertips on her hips, her head peering over his shoulder and into the saucepan on the stove. 

 

And then, one dizzying moment, when he lifted a crispy salmon skin up for her to taste and, instead of taking it from his fingertips with her own, Sam leaned forward and ate it straight from his hand, lips and tongue brushing softly against the pads of his fingers. 

 

He’d almost lost it there; considered dropping the dish and looping his arm around her waist and hauling her close and slanting his lips over hers. And then he caught sight of the cameraman and production crew lingering behind the storage unit of the kitchen and he swallowed roughly, remembering where they were. 

 

“Good?” he managed to rasp out.

 

She chewed thoughtfully and then grinned at him. “Really good,” she confirmed.

 

When they stood before the judges’ panel, at the top of the pack besides Daniel and Teal’c, Jack flashed Kinsey a shit-eating grin and shrugged his shoulders. The host, Janet Fraiser, an acclaimed food critic and personality, smiled brightly at the pair of them. 

 

“We have to admit, I don’t think anyone expected this from either of you. You seem to have brought out the best in each other. I think I can speak for all of us,” she said, looking up and down the judges’ table, “when I say it’s clear you two are the winners. Congratulations.”

 

Carter turned towards him with a triumphant smile and looped her arms around his neck, pulling him down towards her. He sighed and returned her hug, long fingers wrapping along the bulk of her body and his nose burying itself in the crook of her neck. 

 

Over her shoulder, he saw Kinsey frown and stare menacingly at the pair of them. 

 

Jack pulled her closer and whispered, “Congratulations,” against her skin and stroked a hand over her back before pulling away. 

It was his favorite win to date.

 

________________________

 

The bane of any professional chef was pastry. The skill set required for cooking and the skills required for baking were night and day. Where you could deviate from a recipe, tweak this and add a dash of that, when cooking, baking required precision and discipline and a deep understanding of the reactions happening between leavening agents and fat and sugars. 

 

Perhaps it was for this reason that the executive producers and judges of the show thought that it would be a grand idea to set an elimination baking challenge.

 

Things were getting tight—only five of them were left: Teal’c, Daniel, Jack, Sam, and Jonas. To his surprise, he’d grown fond of each of them in their own way. Teal’c’s presence in the kitchen was immensely calming and Daniel’s penchant for losing all track of time and getting wrapped up in the details of a garnish was equal parts frustrating and endearing. 

 

Jonas, he thought, was more puppy than human and he found himself fighting the urge to scratch behind the young man’s ears when he beamed up at Jack, searching for approval from the older, more experienced chef. 

 

And Sam—Sam was quickly becoming his only motivation for putting in even an ounce of effort in this damn show. The better he did meant the longer he could stick around and learn more about her, see her, touch her. 

 

But for the first time since the show started, he worried that it would be Sam leaving before he did. She struggled with the concept of what it is she wanted to bake; struggled with balancing the sweetness and the saltiness of her cookies; struggled with the right fat to flour ratio.

 

Jack murmured encouraging words to her, helped her correct the amount of baking soda and baking powder she had added to her dry mix. But he couldn’t do the bake for her and all he could do was sit and watch as she served up the worst dish of her tenure on the show.

 

Afterwards, when Jonas was the one who was sent home for undercooked and soft cookies (Jack figured he probably would have had more success if he stopped eating the batter during the entire challenge), Sam brushed by them all, head down and eyes glossy with unshed tears. 

 

The van ride and ensuing dinner at the house was quiet and Sam avoided his eyes and the gentle presses of his fingers on her forearm. 

 

“I’m just going to turn in early tonight, guys. See you tomorrow.”

 

Something was bothering her—something beyond a hard challenge—and Jack just wished she would lean on him, talk to him about it. But it was a stark reminder that despite a near kiss and the easy flirtation between them, he didn’t _know_ her. 

 

It was a realization that settled uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach and, before bed, before he could second-guess himself or the cameras likely pointed in every hallway of the house hoping to catch a moment just like this, he knocked softly on her bedroom door and pushed it open.

 

The lights were down low and the curtains drawn, but it didn’t hide the tears on her face or the sounds of her gasping for breath, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of control.

 

He was at her side in a few long strides, sitting beside her on the bed and feeling the mattress dip between them, pushing them closer together. She turned into his side, burying her face in his shoulder and slipping an arm around his waist while his arms went around her shoulders, pulling her against him. 

 

“Hey, hey, c’mere.”

 

She cried quietly against him, her fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt. He simply held her, his big hand stroking soothingly up and down her arm, lips occasionally brushing against her hairline. 

 

Eventually, she pulled away, sniffling and wiping at her eyes. He couldn’t help himself, he used the pads of his thumbs to brush away the last of her tears clinging to the curve of her cheek. 

 

“Something tells me this isn’t because you served an extra crispy cookie, Carter.”

 

She laughed into his hand, lip quivering. Linking their hands fingers and letting their joined hands rest between them, she took a deep breath and shook her head. “No,” she admitted softly. “It’s not.”

 

He stroked a thumb over her knuckles and kept his voice low. “Wanna talk about it?”

 

There was a beat of silence and for a moment all he could hear was her breathing, unsteady and uneven. Finally, she spoke. 

 

“My mom and I used to bake together—a lot, actually. I used to want to be a pastry chef.” She turns a rueful smile on him. “Hard to believe after the performance I just had, but when it as just me and my mom in the kitchen it was like _magic.”_

 

“Sounds pretty great to me,” he agrees, thumb still working over her knuckles. 

 

She bit her lip and nodded, looking down at their joined hands. “Yeah, it was.” She scoots closer to him and squeezes his hand. He pretends it’s because she draws strength from him—and maybe she does. 

 

“One day, I was baking for my mom after school. She had some business meeting or something and she was on her way home from the airport. It-it was supposed to be a surprise.” Her voice broke on _surprise_ and he closed his eyes, dread filling the pit of his stomach. He suspected where this was going from the start and he squeezed her hand in support, an ache unfurling in his chest. 

 

“She never came home,” Sam whispered into the darkness of her room. “Her taxi spun out of control and hit a light pole. My dad told me as I was pulling the cookies out of the oven and I just couldn’t—Ever since then, I haven’t been able to bake without thinking about that day and—“

 

A choked, strangled sob escapes from the back of her throat and she tucks herself more firmly against him, half-turned in his lap and pressing closer as if trying to burrow into him. Jack swallows against her pain and wishes he could take it from her. Instead, he holds her close and rocks back and forth, side to side, soothing her, letting her use him as a human tissue. 

 

He’ll be whatever she needs him to be right now. 

 

They stay like that, tangled up and quiet, exchanging the occasional murmur of thanks and support, for almost an hour. By the end of it, Sam is asleep in his arms, mouth parted and drooling slightly against his neck. It should be gross; instead, it’s endearing. 

 

He rolls her gently towards the head of her bed and tugs the blanket from the foot of the bed up and over her shoulders, brushing a lock of hair from her face. Leaning forward, he brushes a chaste kiss against her forehead. 

 

“Sleep, Sam.”

 

When he slips from her room, he knows how the footage will be edited; knows that the implication that he slipped into her room for a clandestine quickie will be made and believed by millions. 

 

As long as she’s okay, he doesn’t give a damn. 

 

______________________

 

He cuts himself—badly—in the semi-finals. Timing is tight and nothing is going right. His sauce has over-reduced, leaving it thick and sticky and salty, and his oven temperature isn’t stable which is causing his steaks to finish unevenly. 

 

The fine julienne of the carrots he’d been diligently working on betrayed him as the carrot rolled while he was looking over at his saucepan. The super sharp chef’s knife—the one his father had passed down to him, the one he’d sharpened to a fine point that very morning—slid like butter through the fleshy part of his thumb and palm. 

 

He dropped the knife and swore loudly, “ _Motherfucker.”_

 

Blood oozed profusely from the wound and he groaned and rolled his eyes, quickly wrapping his hand and trying to get back to work. He _needed_ to catch up if he wanted to get to the finals with Sam. He just needed a few more days with her. They lived on opposite sides of the country—her in Nevada and he in Washington, DC. After the show ended, what excuse would they have to see each other again?

 

Except the wound wasn’t being stymied by his makeshift bandage and when he pulled open the walk-in fridge, he stumbled and fell forward, forehead pressing against the cool metal.

 

“Jack?”

 

Sam was there, then, a worried expression on her face, blue eyes wide and concerned, and a hot hand on his lower back, guiding him to a chair. 

 

“‘M’fine,” he groaned, ignoring the throbbing in his hand. “Gotta finish my dish. Gotta—“

 

“Holy Hannah,” she breathed as she caught sight of his hand and bandage, completely stained red with his blood. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and pulled his arm up so his hand was sticking up in the air above his head. “Hold this here and—hey!” 

 

He watched as she caught the attention of the crew. “You didn’t _see_ him do this? Get a damn medic over her. _Now!”_

 

The heat and steel in her voice made him proud and he fought a smile as the camera crew scrambled to find the show’s medic. He fought the wave of dizziness that rushed over him. Damn, he must have lost a lot of blood. 

 

“You’re bossy,” he accused, grinning up at her. She glared down at him, panic and worry still evident in her eyes. 

 

“And you’re an imbecile. You should know better with a cut like this.” She looked around the kitchen anxiously for the on-site medic. 

 

“I have to finish, Carter.” He made a move to get up and get back to his station. She frowned and pushed him back into his chair.

 

She snorted incredulously. “I think we should worry about you keeping your hand, don’t you?”

 

He shook his head and looked up at her, pleading. “Sam, please. I don’t want _this_ to be over.”

 

They locked eyes and she swallowed hard, her fingers still wrapped tightly around his bleeding hand. He felt woozy and it was getting hard to concentrate. 

 

“ _This?”_ she whispered, pointing behind her to the bustling kitchen. “O-or _this.”_ She gestured between them in a halting sort of gesture. 

 

He opened his mouth to answer when the crew’s medical team rushed in with eyes wide and bags open, coagulation powders and gauzes and tapes already out and being used on Jack’s hand. She was pushed to the back and the producers took her by the elbow and escorted her back to her station. 

 

She could only watch as the medics shook their heads and loaded him up in a wheelchair and took him to the nearby hospital. 

 

“Stitches, Carter,” he called out to her, disbelieving. “Taken out by goddamn _stitches.”_

 

Thirty minutes later, Janet popped her head into the kitchen to announce that the chefs had just over an hour to complete their dishes. Sam stopped her with a hand on her forearm. 

“And Jack? Is he coming back?”

 

The petite woman shook her head, frowning. “I don’t think so. The cut was deep and the Edoran hospital staff said he needed extensive stitches to repair the damage.”

 

“What about his dish?”

 

Janet sighed sadly. “I’m sorry, Sam. But without a completed dish, there’s just no way he can move forward. Barring any major catastrophes from you or the other chefs, this is probably his last night.”

 

As the host walked away, Sam narrowed her eyes and grit her jaw in concentration. She wouldn’t let Jack go this way—she wasn’t done with him yet. She surveyed is station: the sauce was a lost cause but the steaks and carrots she could work with. 

 

Cracking her neck and rolling her shoulder, Sam set to work. She wasn’t named the best young chef of the west for nothing. She was a damned hard worker and a miracle in the kitchen. 

 

She’d get them _both_ to the finale, if it was the last thing she did. 

 

Later, when Jack—sporting a heavily bandaged hand and a system full of pain killers—found out Sam had finished not only _her_ dish but finished the execution of his own dish to get them both through to the finale, he’d stared at her, mouth agape in shock. The producers informed him it was a show first—no contestant had ever completed the dish of another competitor and done so _successfully._

 

She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chair, face pleased and smug. “When I kick your ass, O’Neill, and _when_ I win this whole damned thing, it’s because I went against the best.”

 

He recovered from his shock and smiled at her brazen attitude. _This_ was the part of her that drew him to her initially—all confidence and cool swagger. And then her words registered in his brain. 

 

“So,” he said, leaning forward playfully. “You think I’m the best?”

 

She rolled her eyes and smacked his shoulder. “Shut up,” she murmured. He caught her hand and, later blaming it on the rush of painkillers in his veins, pulled it up to his lips and pressed a wet, sloppy kiss to the back of her hand. 

 

“And Sam? _Thank you.”_

 

______________________

 

Sam wins—of course she wins—the title of _MasterChef_ or _Top Chef,_ he still can’t remember what the hell the damn show is called. There’s a shower of confetti and a rush of congratulatory fans and friends and family members rushing towards her, eager to hug her and clap her on the back and shake her hand. 

 

But first— _first—_ she turns away from everyone else and faces him, face bright and open and happy. Breathlessly, she throws her arms around his neck and presses her body against is fully in a hug that leaves him wanting.

 

He curves around her easily, head dipping into the curve of her neck and arms wrapping completely around her so that his long fingers brush along the sides of her breasts. 

 

“You did it,” he whispers into the patch of skin beneath her ear, just so she can hear him. “God, Sam, you did it.”

 

She squeezes him back and slips her hand up into his hair, nails catching along the skin of his neck and scalp. He shivers and holds her closer. They’re lingering too long, he knows, but he won’t pull away until she does.

 

And then he feels her lips against the shell of his ear. “I have to go but don’t go anywhere, okay?”

 

His hands drift down her back and squeeze her hips gently before he leans forward and presses a soft, dry kiss to her cheek. “Wild horses, Carter.”

 

She beams at him, takes another searching look at his face, before she’s pulled back into the crowd of admirers and judges and family members. A man with a stern face and thin lips glares at him from across the room and he has a feeling that this man might be Jacob Carter.

 

He gives the man a half-wave of his hand which only causes him to scowl harder. _Right._

 

In a few hours, the studio set is clear of people and cameras, confetti litters the floor, and in the middle of the room stand Sam and Jack. He’d kept his eyes on her the whole night, watching with a full heart the way she’d blushed and ducked her head and accepted the praise and attention she so richly deserved. 

 

“So,” he started, walking towards her, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his jeans and looking at her with a boyish grin. “What’s next for you, oh Chef Extraordinaire?”

 

“Well, I’ve got this prize money.”

 

She shifted closer, hands raising to the front of his chest and her palm pressing against the starchy fabric of his chef’s jacket, fingertips tracing over the stitched _O’Neill_.

 

“Prize money? Sounds pretty good.” He settled his hands on her hips and shuffled closer, invading her personal space and sharing the same breath as her.

 

She hummed and grinned up at him, teasing and playful. “And on top of that, they gave me this six-day stay in Bali. All expenses paid.”

 

“Sounds like a heck of a deal.”

 

“The thing is, it’s for two.”

 

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Well, what are you going to do about that?”

 

She lifted her head up to his, lips parting softly. “I was thinking maybe you’d want to—“

 

And then his lips were on hers, working her mouth over with is as thoroughly as if she was one of his new dishes. He kissed her thoroughly—completely—and pressed his lips against hers in varying amounts of pressure, hard and then backing off, easing the kiss into something soft before surging back in, tongue sweeping into her mouth. 

 

She gasped and clung to him, winding her hands up around his neck and pulling him to her mouth closer, tilting her head to give him better access. He nipped at her bottom lip, drawing sights and moans from her, his tongue slipping inside her mouth and stroking over her tongue and the roof of her mouth. 

 

The heat was building quickly between them and he felt the front of his black, chef’s utility pants become increasingly tight as Sam rolled her hips against him, searching for friction and something else. 

 

With reluctance, he eased the kiss and pressed one, two, three soft, short kisses to her mouth before pulling away and resting his forehead against hers. She stroked her hands through his hair softly and nuzzled close to him. 

 

“Jack,” she whispered. “Come with me.”

 

“Yeah, I got that earlier. That was my answer, by the way,” he teased gently, leaning forward and kissing her softly once more. His hand cupped her cheek and then slid down the column of her neck, thumb pressing in at the pulse point of her neck. 

 

He didn’t know how they were going to work: Nevada and DC, age differences, and a whole wealth of knowledge about the other that they still had to learn. But for now, with the taste of her in his mouth and the thought of her in a black two-piece along some sandy beach, a tropical drink in hand, just the two of them for six days, it was enough. 

 

“When do we leave?” he murmured against her lips, trailing his mouth over her jawline and down her neck, grinning into her skin when she sighed and tilted her head back to give him better access. 

 

“Now sounds pretty good.”

 

He chuckled and pulled back, threading his hand through her hair and pushing it back off her face. Now that he _could_ touch her after a long ten weeks of build-up, he couldn’t _stop_ touching her. 

 

“And if you’re lucky, I’ll cook you breakfast in the morning.”

 

She threaded their fingers together and tugged him towards the exit, rolling her eyes at him, looking pointedly at the _Congratulations, Sam!_ banner that dropped down as part of her win.

 

“Actually, I think if _you’re_ lucky, _I’ll_ cook _you_ breakfast in the morning.”

 

As it turned out, Jack O’Neill was feeling pretty lucky for the first time in a long time. 


	2. bali

In the weeks after the finale, they’re returned to their respective cities and it’s some of the longest of Jack O’Neill’s life. At the airport where they had said their goodbyes, in between soft, searching kisses and wandering hands, Sam rolled her eyes at him and showed him how to use video chatting and text messaging.

 

When the airport PA system announces her flight is boarding, she wraps her arms around his neck and pushes up on her toes to slant her mouth over his, tongue immediately dipping into his mouth and stealing one last taste of him. He holds her tight and when she murmurs goodbye against his mouth, he hangs onto her hand until just their fingertips are brushing and then finally separating. He watches with a heavy heart as she jogs away from him towards her gate.

 

The countdown until they meet up again begins instantaneously. 

 

Since then, he’s become well-versed in text messaging—including a winky face emoji that he uses entirely too often and a kissing face emoji that he doesn’t really care for but it had made her laugh and that’s enough of a reason to keep using it. They video chat a few times a week and talk on the phone as often as they can. 

 

But they’re back at work and a chef’s schedule is unpredictable at best, even when you aren’t coming off an international cooking competition televised to millions of people. It means hasty phone calls in the wee hours of the morning and night, hurried calls in between pick-ups during service, and hastily fired text messages. 

 

Both of their restaurants are packed every day and for the first time in their lives, the _press_ is knocking at their door. 

 

(Each of them get more than a few tongue-in-cheek questions about their relationship— _alleged_ relationship. The show’s video producers have edited the footage of their budding friendship and relationship in _just_ the right way to stoke the fan theories and get the message boards hopping.)

 

So when it finally comes time for them to meet at a central airport—some place in Texas—he can’t help but drop his bag from his shoulder and sweep her up into his arms, burying his face into her neck and sagging against her in relief. From the way she clutches fistfuls of his shirt andsighs his name, he knows the weeks have been just as hard on her as they have been on him. 

 

“Hey there, Master Top Chef Carter,” he teases, brushing a soft, welcoming kiss to her cheek. She blushes and ducks her head, playing with a button on his shirt. 

 

Looking up at him and shuffling closer, unwilling to be too far from him after spending so long apart, she looks up at him and presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “I missed you,” she confesses quietly, barely discernible above the noise of the airport. 

 

He slings an arm around her shoulders and picks up his bag, walking them towards their gate and towards Bali.

 

“Right back at you, Carter,” he murmurs into the crown of her head, lips and whiskers catching on her hair. 

 

There’s so much he has to learn about her, still. But he has almost twelve hours on a plane and a week in Bali, at least, to get started. When she passes out on the plane next to him, her fingertips resting on his knee, her vodka-club soda barely touched in front of her, and her cheek on his shoulder, he learns something new already: Samantha Carter is a lightweight and she snores when she sleeps. 

 

___________________

 

It seems to hit them both once they’ve landed that they have a week of absolutely no expectations other than being together. She kisses him while they wait for a cab to take them to the resort that accompanied her prize as he slips his hand into her back pocket, casual and intimate. 

 

In the back of the cab, the cab driver recognizes both of them and excitedly delves into his favorite moments on the show, heatedly and passionately coming to Jack’s defense for Kinsey’s unfair critique of his food. Jack tries to wave him off but he’ll endure it a little longer if it means Sam keeps pressing closer against his side to hide her face in his chest. 

 

When they finally arrive at the resort, he hikes both of their bags over his shoulder and points an accusatory finger at her after she barely held back her laughter when the cab driver requested a selfie with Jack. 

 

“A little help would’ve been nice, you know.”

 

She just takes her bag from him and grins, slipping her hand into his on the walk to the check-in counter. “You had it all under control, Chef.”

 

Jack’s rebuttal sticks somewhere in his throat because he spent sixteen weeks falling in love with her followed by a few weeks apart and the sight of their fingers tangled together and the sound of Sam checking them into the room under her name—one name—is doing him in. 

 

In the elevator, the bags hit the floor with a thud and he crowds her into the corner, one hand on her hip and the other sliding up her neck and cupping her cheek. 

 

“Jack,” she breathes out, fingers hooking into his belt loops and tugging him close. 

 

He teases her, lips just barely brushing over hers—a whisper of a kiss. “We’ve only got ten floors to go.”

 

“Then we better make the most of it.” With that, she slips her hand up under the hideous oversized tropical button-down he’s wearing. His skin is warm and he jumps at her touch, but she just grins into his kiss and licks into his mouth. His tongue curls around hers and as he strokes her tongue with his own, his thumb mimics the stroking motion along the curve of her cheek. 

 

The mechanical sound of the elevator beeping warns them that they’re losing time in the confined, isolated space where all they have is wandering hands and lips and shared gasps and groans. 

 

By the time the elevator beeps, alerting them to the fact that they’ve arrived at the penthouse, Sam’s leg is lifting and itching to hook around Jack’s waist and his hand is down her pants, cupping her ass and puling her close. 

 

But they pull themselves together enough to grab their bags and stumble out of the elevator and into the hotel room. He’s kinda ready for a week of seeing her in a bathing suit—bikini or otherwise—and exploring the island. He’s ready for drinks and tiny umbrellas and Sam smiling at him over a plate of freshly caught and cooked fish; ready to chase the adrenaline streak they both have in them and go zip lining and scuba diving; ready to lay her out on the beach and trail his lips over her neck and chest and stomach and lick the salt and sun from her body. 

 

Sam has other ideas. 

 

The door to the room is barely clicking shut when she presses herself against him and kisses him soundly, hands pulling at the shoulder straps of their luggage before going to work on the buttons of his shirt. 

 

He groans and pulls her closer, content to let her have control of the kiss. “Sam, you know we have a week here, right? We don’t have to rush.”

 

Because as much as he wants this—her—right here, right now, he needs her to know there’s no rush. She nips at his bottom lip before latching onto the cords of his neck, the broadside of her tongue laving against his skin. 

 

“God, _Sam.”_ He jerks against her, pressing his hardness against her belly, and gripping her hip tight. 

 

“Jack,” she mumbles against his neck, mouth busy kissing and licking and sucking a mark into the place where his shoulder meets his neck. “We had cameras on us for sixteen weeks. We’ve only had video chatting for the last four.” She pulls away, head tilting to the side to admire the bright red mark against his skin for a moment before looking up at him with a grin.

 

“I don’t want to wait anymore.”

 

It’s exactly the right thing to say because Jack becomes a different man, no longer content to give over control to her. He wraps his arms around her and walks her back into the bedroom, working at her clothes. She’s wearing something long and flowy and tropical and as much as he’s loving grazing his teeth over her bare shoulders and dipping his thumbs into the hollows of her collarbones and throat, he wants it off of her. 

 

“Off,” he commands, tugging at her dress impatiently. He doesn’t want to take his mouth from her skin—not now that he knows that her neck is hot and salty and the patch of skin behind her ear is tangy and bitter with the taste of her perfume. 

 

She huffs a laugh at his insistence but pushes him back from her and he finds himself surprised to fall back onto the bed. He had barely registered that they had made it into the bedroom; his focus had been entirely on her. 

 

Pushing himself up onto an elbow, his hard cock tenting the front of his shorts unashamedly, he watches as she steps between his legs and reaches down for the hem of her dress, slowly pulling up.

 

She’s all pale skin and long limbs before him, only wearing a pair of dusty pink lace underwear. The sight of her bare breasts makes his cock twitch in his pants and her eyes go dark and serious when she sees his reaction. Sam tosses the dress somewhere in the corner and threads her fingers into the silver-grey of his hair, nails scratching at his scalp. 

 

“Christ, Sam,” he breathes out, sitting up fully and palming her breast with one hand and gripping her hip with the other. She guides his head forward and encourages his lips to trail over her abdomen. 

 

There’s something undeniably erotic about standing before him essentially naked while he remains fully clothed. “Your turn,” she teases, fingering the collar of his tropical shirt. 

 

He presses a kiss above the band of her underwear and, with a wolfish grin, tugs her down next to him on the bed, rolling over her with a knee on either side of her hips to effectively pin her to the mattress. 

 

Quickly, he tugs his shirt over his head, exposing tan skin and silver chest hair. Sam wastes no time in tracing a maze of patterns over his chest and abdomen and smiling proudly when he hisses as her nail catches on his nipple. 

 

He catches her wrist and presses her into the mattress, covers her body with his own, and seals his lips over hers because her hair is mussed and her skin is flushed and she’s looking at him like he’s a better prize than any cooking competition. 

 

As he works on sucking her tongue into his mouth, he doesn’t see Sam’s hand slipping between their bodies to palm and cup his cock through the thick fabric of his khaki shorts. He gasps into her mouth and thrusts forward into her hand. 

 

She rips her mouth from his and kisses his cheek and reaches for his ear, biting down on the fleshy part of his lobe. “Off,” she hisses into his ear, tugging at the waistband of his pants. 

 

“Oh, hell yes, Chef.”

 

He scrambles off of her as she laughs at his words and makes quick work of his shorts and boxers, tugging them down and kicking them off somewhere in the direction of where her dress is laying on the floor. 

 

Instead of covering her body with his again like he’s fucking _aching_ to do, he kneels at the edge of the bed and wraps his hands around her ankles and pulls her forward so his head is between her legs. 

 

“Jack,” she whines as his fingers tug on the waistband of her panties and pull the fabric down and off her legs. He grins at her, hair sticking up in all directions, before leaning down and nuzzling at the damp curls between her legs. 

 

“We’re chefs, Carter,” he reminds her, breath hot on her sex and making her twitch. “Taste everything, right?”

 

And then his mouth is on her: tongue dragging over her slick folds, dipping and licking and flicking over wet flesh, fingers pressing just inside of her and crooking upwards to coax her into a writhing, panting mess. His thumb presses against her swollen clit and he sets a punishing pace, rubbing tight, fast circles to the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

 

The taste of her is explosive and he laps at her and savors the musky, sweet taste of her against his tongue. He grasps himself in his hand loosely, thrusting into the hot cup of his hand to take the edge off. Her hands are in his hair, guiding his mouth higher up her body until he’s sucking at her clit too and—

 

“ _Fuck,_ Jack. Please, please.”

 

She chants his name, begs him to push her over the edge with his fingers and tongue and teeth. He obliges her and slips one, then two, fingers inside of her. She’s hot and wet and so damn tight that he can feel himself leaking precum into his hand in anticipation of being inside her.

 

“C’mon, Sam,” he encourages her, diverting his tongue into the crease of her thigh briefly to lick at the slick, salty skin there. 

 

She scrabbles at his shoulders and he hisses at the burn of her nails scratching against him, proud that she’s left another mark on his body. He crooks his fingers inside of her, pressing into the spongy tissue at the front of her vagina, and Sam _keens_ , hips flying off the bed and shaking as her orgasm crashes over her.

 

When her body lets his fingers go, he covers her body with his and presses soft, open-mouthed kisses up her abdomen and sternum, detouring to her breasts and nipples, using his mouth to work her through the aftershocks of her climax. 

 

His cock presses at her entrance, hot and hard and leaking for her. “Condom?” he pants out, thrusting lightly against her, desperately needing her. 

 

Sam’s leg hitches up and over his hips and she rolls them so she’s on top of him, bracing herself on top of him with a hand in the center of his chest. 

 

“I’m on the pill and clean,” she assures him. Her body is still oversensitive from her previous orgasm but she’s waited for him just as long as he’s waited for her—almost twenty weeks together but not _together—_ and she wants him. 

 

The thought of him inside of her while her body is still shaking and quivering from his tongue and fingers is too tempting to pass up and she wraps her fingers around him and guides him inside of her. 

 

When she sinks down on him fully, his cock buried inside her and his hands alternately gripping her hips and breasts, they both groan at the sensation. 

 

Jack wants to tell her how good she feels around him—how hot and tight and perfect. He wants to tell her that he thought about this when they were apart for weeks and, if he was being honest, a few times in the shower in the chef house while they were competing. 

 

But there’s not energy or time for words when Sam is moving over him, riding him and clenching around him and stroking her hand over his chest and abdomen and shoulders. The calluses on her palms and fingers, the scars from knife cuts and stove burns, catch and tug on his skin and he groans at the sensation. 

 

Sam isn’t just some woman—she’s a _chef._ She’s like him. She understands the passion and heat and love and focus and dedication it takes to make it as a professional chef. It feels like he’s found his equal and he never wants to let her go. 

 

He also wants to get inside of her deeper and harder and with his palms on the small of her back, he rolls her underneath him and presses deeper inside of her. She clings to him and buries her face in his neck, mouth sucking and kissing against his pulse point. 

 

It’s a flurry of gasps and groans, thrusting hips and clutching hands, and a soft litany of curses and _Almost there_. 

 

“Close,” she gasps, eyes wild and fingernails digging into his shoulders, urging him on. 

 

He increases the pace of his thrusts and when she wraps her legs around his waist and crosses her ankles at the small of his back and _pulls_ him in deeper, letting him bottom out deep inside of her, she shatters around him, coming on his cock and gasping his name into the cool, bright room of the hotel room. 

 

Jack follows right behind her, coming hard inside of her, hips twitching in the aftermath, before rolling over and gathering Sam’s shaking form up into his arms, lips pressing lazily and softly to the crown of her head. 

 

Their legs are still tangled together and Jack can feel his own fluids leaking out of her and onto his thigh. She kisses his chin just because it’s the closest part of him that she can reach before she reaches between her legs and collects his fluid and hers on the tip of her finger and raising it to her lips.

 

“Taste everything, right?”

 

Jack can do nothing but watch in absolute arousal as Sam wraps her lips around her finger and licks and sucks the flavor of the two to them together into her mouth. 

 

“Fuck, Sam,” he groans, tugging her close and burying his face against her neck. She laughs and ghosts her fingertips over his ribs and he nips at her bare shoulder. She’s teasing him on purpose and he loves it. 

 

“So, what do you think, Chef?” he asks, kissing her lips lightly. “How’d we do?”

 

She pretends to think for a moment, shifting in the bed and pressing closer. 

 

“I think we’re a winning dish.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
